


We're Driving the Bus to Hell, Baby

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Fire and Gunpowder [8]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Anger Counseling, F/M, Family Violence/Abuse, Gen, Jailhouse Drama, Multi, Murder Trials, Non-Graphic Violence, Shooting lessons, character origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:53:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The precarious balance is upset.  From there, everything is just a downward spiral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We're Driving the Bus to Hell, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> We've finally arrived at the beginning of the end (or end of the beginning, depending on how you look at it). The Doctor from "Boys and Their Toys" makes a return, and a few familiar faces arrive on the scene.
> 
> The violence in here isn't graphic, but there is a decent amount of it. Rating to be safe.

“Headed out?”

Her voice floats on the air, nearly musical in its casual tone, half a minute before he looks up at the sound of approaching heels, clicking their way across the floor. The clock chimes an announcement of the six o’clock evening hour: dinner time for most, working time for others, and for an exceptional few, the beginning of nightlife on the town.

“Just running an errand.” He says, finishing with shoe laces and standing up as she closes the distance a little more. There’s a playful little tilt to her head and a matching smile on her dark red lips. _Bleeding Rose_ lipstick tonight. He loves the shade on her. He loves it even more while scrubbing the smeared stains from his skin, always with a twinge of regret that the proof must be washed away.

“Have everything you need?”

He pretends to think, as if recalling all the essentials on a mental checklist, then gives a decisive _hmm_. “Come to think of it, there is something I’m missing.” He steps forward, lifting an eyebrow at her innocent blinking. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my gun is, would you?”

“I might.” She shrugs one shoulder; the innocent look is very good, nearly flawless, but there’s mischief in her eyes and a smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth.

“May I have it?” he takes a step forward, eyes dragging a slow path down her front. “Please?”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Name your price.”

The smirk blossoms, spreading wide across her lips before softening into a broad smile; her hands take hold of his, pulling closer, step by step, and then her smile meets his. She doesn’t rush the kiss; that he has an errand to run, she has a date at the club (with reluctant cousin in tow), and the hour is ticking by, means nothing to her and even less to him. After a few lazy moments, one kiss smoothly blending into the next, her hands bring his around her waist, to the small of her back. He smirks, as he often does, when one hand is guided beneath the waist of her skirt and his fingers find metal instead of skin.

“Keeping it warm for me?” he inquires, pulling the gun free of her waistband and holstering it at his belt. Stazia shrugs, this time with less innocence.

“Anything for you, Mr. Nimbus.”

It’s a well-rehearsed game by now, played nearly every night. The most notable difference is the location of his gun. On her well-behaved nights, it’s tucked lazily into a pocket or held between coy fingers behind her back. On other nights…he’s found it in nearly every location, from her waistband to a garter wrapped around the inner thigh beneath her skirt. On the latter occasions, he’s often an hour late running his errand. The person he’s supposed to kill isn’t going anywhere, and a man must have his priorities.

“Try to be nice to your cousin tonight, hmm?” he asks, while dropping his eyes to her outfit, once again: corset top with sheer panels, black leather skirt, matching heels, and a jacket to loosely preserve modesty certainly won’t be doing Raffi any favors at the club tonight, but it’s a lovely image to keep him warm for the next few hours. “Just for a change of pace.”

She makes a face at him. “Do I have to?”

“Just until my errand is done.” He promises, setting a tiny kiss to her forehead. “I’d hate for you start any trouble without me around.”

“It’s only _trouble_ until you show up, baby.” She purrs. “Then we just call it a good time.”

***

“A good time” really isn’t without her partner. It’s like riding a rollercoaster, or one of those high-speed, fifty-feet-off-the-ground, spin-until-you-throw-up carnival rides: no one ever rides them alone. Barreling down some rickety old wooden tracks or being twirled through the air at rates ordinarily reserved for jet planes is never a one-man (or woman) show. Having someone at your side makes the adrenaline rush all the more exciting, the stomach-churning dizziness absolutely worthwhile, and the hour-long heart palpitations seem like self-composed music that no one else can hear.

Once, she lived to be alone. _Once._ Those days have come and gone, lived their usefulness, and are well-past their expiration date. She has a partner now, and the dance just isn’t the same without him.

But sometimes she gets the party started early, just because she can and, no matter where she is or what time it happens to be, he always shows up. No explanation, no reasoning or rationalizing this strange phenomenon; he just shows up, right on time.

Tonight, she drags her cousin to some hole-in-the-wall, a local dive bar prized for its karaoke nights and cheap booze. She takes the stage, twice. The first time, she croons out some 80’s love song, just for fun and because it happened to catch her eye. The second time is an hour later; she sheds her jacket, loses the hair clip, and proceeds to render everyone half-dead with the opening chords of a rock-inspired tune. She has two-third of the crowd on their feet by the second round of chorus; Raffi is in the far corner, with the look of a man wishing upon a star for the floor to swallow him up. At the front entrance, she finds the amused smirk of her biggest fan, leaning casually against the door with fingers drumming lightly to the beat.

She receives a standing ovation while skipping off the stage. Raffi is halfway through his fourth drink, tossing them back like it’s a paid competition. She ditches him and makes her escape with Kyle’s hand in hers: out the door, onto the motorcycle which has since become theirs instead of hers, and down the street, all in under five minutes. When they reach the far side of town, she gives him a private performance.

He tells her, later, she should consider making a career of her voice. The idea isn’t exceptionally unappealing.

***

There’s always a risk with any gamble, and let no one be fool enough to think their relationship is not a high-stakes gamble. She’s still the boss’ daughter. He’s still the boss’ employee. She’s engaged to marry another man. There’s a line drawn in the sand—always has been, actually—and they’ve stepped over it so many times now that it’s barely visible. He’s not sure it was ever really visible to begin with.

If he were to look back and ask just whose fault it really was, who really was responsible for the beginning of the end, he thinks it might be a mutual affair. No one intentionally upset the already-precarious balance of a poorly-kept secret; it was him acting on instinct and her responding without thinking.

It happens when a burly club patron, the kind who probably uses illegal substances to enhance muscle strength until no shirt can properly disguise the bulging mounds that make him look more like a caricature than a human being, doesn’t take kindly to being refused a dance with her. She is in rare form tonight, all black silk and ruby-red heels and loose blonde curls, but it doesn’t give this idiot an excuse to not take “No” for an answer. It certainly doesn’t give him the right to follow her, making a scene along the way, and then grab her arm.

It’s the final insult that, ultimately, snaps restraint. Kyle has seen men salivate over her, watched them attempt to flirt and then wither upon rejection, and he’s even seen a few get pushy and earn an exceptionally cold dismissal, just to deliver the necessary point. But there is a line that can be crossed, and laying hands on her blows the line clear out of the water, twice.

“You have two choices,” he calmly says, once the muscle-bound idiot is face-down on the floor, one arm twisted behind his back and a gun at the base of his skull, “walk out of here with a bruised ego, or be carted out with a bullet in your head. Pick now, before I decide for you.”

He doesn’t have to kill anyone tonight, and it’s too early for the party to end, so everyone around them goes back to drinking and dancing, sweeping that little bit of excitement under the proverbial rug with barely a blink. Stazia takes three steps forward, grabs his lapels, and kisses him, hard. He kisses her back, before his better judgment can catch up and remind him they aren’t alone here.

The other club-goers aren’t the problem, but Raffi is.

***

Within the family, it’s a quiet affair. No one seems particularly concerned when their table is absent one party for breakfast, without warning and without explanation. The headline splashed across the front page barely raises anyone’s eyebrow. Except one.

“I have tolerated your brazen displays since you were a child.” Her father replies, when she storms into his study, paper clenched in a shaking fist, and demands answers. “Did you really think you would get away with this one?”

“So punish _me_.” She says. “ _I_ ’m the one you’re pissed at. Leave him out of this.”

“I regret this is what must be done.” He answers, without any hint of remorse or regret. “He was a valuable employee. Pity his tenure must come to such an end.”

“ _Leave him out of this_.” She repeats, with acidic emphasis and tears building at the back of her eyes, but it makes no difference. Her father reminds her, with cold eyes and brutally succinct terms, she has no one to blame but herself. Her choices have amounted to this. Her loss is of her own making, and this is a due punishment for such behavior.

She burns the paper in her fireplace and watches pages blacken into ash. The tears fall, but they are cold and she doesn’t really cry. No sound escapes her lips. She lets the tears come, one by one, and watches the dark splotched marks made across the one piece of newspaper she didn’t burn: the picture captured by a high-reaching media camera, of three officers protectively surrounding the arresting detective and his prisoner. The detective is a dark-skinned man, in a proper suit with dark overcoat for the rainy forecast, staring ahead with determined eyes and a set jaw. The small print beneath the picture calls him by name: Detective Joe West. She stares at this man’s face and name until both are branded upon her memory. She vows to never forget him, or what he has done.

She lifts the picture to her lips, pressing a slow kiss to the man being led away in handcuffs. There are tear streaks, blurring the ink, on either side of his face when she pulls away. Detective West’s face blurs until the features are vague, as does the other policeman. But Kyle’s face is untouched.

“Love you.” She whispers. The next tears to fall are a little warmer.

***

The trial itself begins quickly, but the testimonies drag on day after day after day. The prosecution spends hours examining and redirecting, apparently determined to wring every last detail from the wagging tongues only too eager to comply. By late afternoon on the fourth day, the prosecutor finishes with Raffi and excuses him to join others in the gallery. Kyle sits in silence. Beside him, the court-appointed attorney just shakes his head. He doesn’t even try to look optimistic for his client’s sake, and Kyle knows he’s already given up.

The next day, the prosecution calls its final witness. He hears the name and can only conclude Araz worked with the prosecutor and did this on purpose. Let the prosecution rest with a final testimony to seal his fate: that of the one person with whom he spent the most time and very likely knew even more of his secrets than Araz himself.

Stazia is a glaring contrast to her family: they sit in neatly-pressed suits and ties, while she distances herself figuratively and literally in denim and black leather. The rest display eager compliance to give up every last piece of information they have, and she is a solid sculpt of icy refusal. Two deputies usher her into a standing position while the prosecutor approaches her, after the judge has ordered her to the box twice. Even from a distance, he can hear her rebuttal against their instructions. After five minutes, the prosecutor turns and advises the judge, a brown-haired woman with sharp eyes and lines around her mouth, accordingly.

“Miss Darbinyan,” Judge Howard says, rather tersely, “you will comply with the court’s instructions, or you will be held in contempt.”

There’s a moment—barely sixty seconds, probably less—when Stazia’s brown eyes flicker over to his, and he finds himself at a loss. This is the only time he has to communicate something, anything to her, and he is suspended in an inner conflict. Testify, and she betrays him. Hold her silence, and she goes to jail. She doesn’t belong in jail. She wouldn’t do well. She can be feisty, yes, but to hold her own— 

“Let me make your decision easier, Judge Howard.” Stazia says, right before she turns and throws a fist in her father’s face. There’s no distinct _crack_ of bones, at least not above the sudden noise that fills the courtroom and the judge’s shouted order to get her out of the courtroom, but he can see blood seeping out of Araz’s nose when he staggers to his feet.

Strangely enough, this little scene lifts his attorney’s spirits. The stout little man jumps to his feet and calls for a mistrial, a continuance, and a few other legal terms that Kyle could care less about. Through the secured door, in the holding cell, he strains his ears and can hear Araz shouting profanities and cursing his daughter in three different languages. He hears Stazia return in kind, her icy demeanor from the past week melting, transformed into a blazing inferno. She calls her father a spineless coward. She wishes him dead, twice over.

Then, there’s nothing. Nothing except the judge declaring court adjourned for the day and they’ll begin again on Monday.

***

Her father refuses to post bail, and since it’s Friday, she is due to spend a weekend in jail. Whether or not charges will be filed for her throwing a fist in his face is yet to be determined. 

She’s booked into the county jail about an hour after the incident. It’s a place of concrete and thick glass windows, walls painted a muted grey-green, floors dirty and scuffed. A lock-jawed woman with narrowed eyes gives her a jumpsuit that doesn’t fit, bags her civilian clothes, and has a guard escort her to a cell. She is given a mocking “Behave yourself” before the door shuts and the guards walk away.

Her cellmate is a bronze-skinned woman with full curves and tri-colored hair. She doesn’t say much throughout the remaining daylight hours, just reclines on her bunk with some fashion magazines. Then, an hour or so before dinner, she tosses the magazine aside and rolls onto one side, halfway dangling over the mattress edge to look down at Anastazia.

“Did you break anything, Blondie?”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Your old man, the one you clocked.” The other woman says, and at least now she knows how fast news travels through this place. “Did you break anything?”

She bloodied his nose, and her knuckles hurt like crazy for it. Her bunkmate scoffs, loudly, and shakes her head. “If you’re gonna throw something, make it count.” She says, rolling back onto the mattress. “Otherwise it means squat. And no one this side of the bars’ll take you seriously.”

At dinner, those words take on a prophetic meaning. She’s cornered while putting her untouched food in the trash. A heavy-set woman knocks the tray from her hands, sending food remnants flying this way and that and the tray clattering across the floor. Such a scene draws attention, as does the way this woman gets in her face, asking if she thinks she’s “all that” because of what she did. This is a woman ready to pick a fight just because she can. Walking away isn’t an option; there are four or five other inmates on either side, so Anastazia swallows her pride, throws out the obligatory retort, and braces for the inevitable.

The first blow is to her lower gut. The second is a knee to her right eye once she’s doubled over. The guards step in, after the fact, and the party ends before it even begins. The woman makes some kind of gesture that, while obscure, is most likely a threat. Someone else mutters a warning for her to watch her back.

She refuses the infirmary, but a guard takes pity on her and provides some ice for her eye, after she’s in her cell. Her roommate tends to her like a lost puppy, while shaking her head and making a few comments about how she’ll get herself killed before Monday even comes. She’s not sure that statement is anything less than accurate.

***

Saturday begins with a headache from her bruised eye, but at least the swelling has gone down. Her stomach is a mix of dark red and pale purple, and it hurts to bend over. Annette, her cellmate, states the obvious, that she probably has deep-muscle bruising, and after watching Anastazia cringe at every deep breath and forward bend, shows her how to massage some of the pain away.

“Why are you in here?” Anastazia finally asks, over a thankfully quiet lunch with food that is barely meant for human consumption, but the pudding is at least edible.

“My man pissed me off.” She shrugs. “Beat him a few times with his own baseball bat, then took a swing at the cop who tried to pull me off before I was done.”

Annette thoughtfully munches on a roll, then adds, “He was kinda cute. The cop.”

“Notice that as you were swinging the bat towards his head?” she asks, with dry amusement.

“Mmm.” The other woman licks her lips in a way that’s half indecent and half amusing. “Big hands too. I like a man with big hands.”

Anastazia refrains from commenting, and another minute passes in silence before Annette breaks it again. “You know why they’re picking fights, right?”

“No.” She doesn’t really care, but it’s always good to be informed.

“You’re a celebrity.” Annette smirks without humor. “Everybody knows your daddy, and they can’t wait to get their hands on Daddy’s Little Princess.”

Her gaze darkens, glowering at the half-eaten pudding like it’s to blame for all her troubles. “I don’t have a father.”

Annette pats her on the head and fondly accuses her of having “Daddy issues”. She shrugs it off, gives a little smirk as though she didn’t mean a word of it, and finishes what vaguely constituted a meal. Across the dining hall, her attacker makes a gesture similar to the prior evening. This time, she cocks her eyebrow and returns the gesture.

Some of the other inmates witness the exchange and quietly warn her, throughout the evening, about picking fights with the wrong people. That if she doesn’t keep her nose clean, she’ll lose it and a few other things.

“Sound advice,” she tells them, because she’s past the point of caring otherwise, “except _I_ ’m the one you shouldn’t be messing with.”

***

Ironically the Biblical day of rest, Sunday proves to be anything but restful. She has a few women get in her face as early as the morning shower, deals with some mouthy specimens during breakfast and lunch, and has water thrown in her face twice. Annette comes to her defense a couple times, but not often enough to make much of a difference.

In the afternoon, they’re brought out to a fenced yard for exercise. This, she quickly determines, is less an opportunity for exercise and more a chance for disputes to be settled in public with an audience. They’ve been outside for five minutes, a short reprieve, and then a familiar face gets right up in hers.

“You grown a spine now, Princess?” the woman asks; she has terrible breath and Anastazia nearly chokes under the stench. “Daddy isn’t here to save you with a checkbook.”

A simmer of rage ripples through her veins. “Get out of my face.” She returns through clenched teeth. Behind her, Annette lightly pulls on the jumpsuit, muttering something about walking away. It’s easy enough to feign deafness.

“Or what?”

“Just do it, and we won’t have to cross that bridge.” She snaps; this time, she shoves a firm hand against the woman’s broad shoulder, just to make a point. It’s received and returned with a fist to her already-bruised eye. Annette catches her mid-fall and repeats her earlier comment: _Walk away._

No. Not this time.

In retrospect, Stazia really isn’t sure what happens, or how it happens. She certainly isn’t a muscle-bound bodybuilder, and in comparison is very small to the other woman. But something happens, because it takes less than half a minute for her to be on top, getting her hits in, one after the other after the other, with hands striking and fists dealing blows and nails scratching like a wildcat. The large woman gets a few hits of her own; they make their mark and hurt like hell, but they don’t stop her. She finally understands what it means to “see red”, except she doesn’t see red. She sees fire. Molten lava, raging inferno. At some point, a woman’s face loses all concepts of femininity, and she sees her father. Her hits come faster, harder, punctuated by a three-word mantra echoing like a battle drum in her ears: _I hate you. I **hate** you. **I hate you.**_

It takes three guards to pull her off the other woman, and an additional two to put her in solitary. She’s told, through the slit in her new cell door, that she’ll be heard in court tomorrow morning. She has no ability left to care.

***

The morning begins with a mild-mannered guard telling Judge Howard of an “incident” which took place in the women’s courtyard yesterday. Across the room, Araz turns a dark mauve color and his necktie seems to be strangling him. Kyle’s attorney is obliged to put a hand on him twice, with the way he’s trying to get out of his chair and choke more details from the guard—Was Stazia hurt? Is she alright? _Where_ is she?—but stops after Kyle grabs his plump wrist and growls a promise as to what will happen to this hand if it so much gestures his way again.

Judge Howard looks highly exasperated and continues the trial for another day. Araz quickly stands and has a few words with the prosecutor and court deputies. Kyle can easily guess the subject of that conversation, and quickly turns to the little man beside him. Damned if Araz will be the first one to see her. Damned if Araz will see her _at all_.

“I can’t.” His attorney protests, after the fact, looking highly flustered at his client’s request, “It’s all manner of unethical and unorthodox, not to mention—”

Kyle fists a hand in his shirt front and brings him a little closer. “Not to mention,” he whispers, tone deadly and eyes fixed in an icy glare, “that wasn’t a request.”

***

The holding cell isn’t ideal privacy, but it will have to do. There are only a couple guards outside, in the event of anything extreme or unwarranted, and he could care less about the small audience. They can choke on their opinions, for all he cares.

His stomach clenches violently when a female guard quietly escorts Stazia in and removes the handcuffs. One eye is a pool of dark violet bruises with a sickly green accent; her lip is split in two different places, the left underside of her jaw is bruised half a shade lighter than her eye, and she’s favoring her right side. She meets his gaze and offers a tiny shrug.

“I’d say it looks worse than it is,” she murmurs, “but…it’s about as bad as it looks.”

He doesn’t wait for her to close the distance; he does it for her, and pulls her into his arms. On the tip of his tongue is a comment about playing nice with the other kids, but it sticks, weighs heavy, and eventually dies a quick death without ever being spoken. Her face is buried in his shoulder, arms wound tight around him, and though she makes no sound, he feels the telling dampness growing through the cloth.

“It’s alright.” He whispers against her forehead, running fingers methodically through her hair, offering reassurances that, in truth, are virtually empty. It’s not alright. It’s not going to be alright. The lie is worthless, but he offers it anyway, because he doesn’t have anything else to say right now.

When the same female guard returns and says it’s time to go, Stazia kisses him for a moment too short. “Love you, baby.” She whispers.

The guard pulls her away before he can respond.

***

Daddy doesn’t bother to try and save her with hired counsel, so the court offers her a public defender. She dismisses any offered assistance and enters a guilty plea on the first court date. She just wants this to be over with, and she’ll take her chances with the court’s mercy.

The stooped and elderly judge is half-deaf, consequently speaking far louder than necessary, and clearly a day away from his retirement. He is also quite unimpressed with the strength of this case: the supposed “victim” has declined to press charges, the defendant is just as heavily bruised with a valid self-defense argument, and any other jailhouse witnesses aren’t talking. He dismisses the entire thing as a “courtyard brawl” and orders Anastazia to complete some anger management classes within the next three months and pay court costs.

“Stay in touch, Blondie.” Annette says with a fond little smirk, helping guide the jacket over Anastazia’s shoulders before the guards lead her out. “I like you.”

She gives Annette a parting nod and smile. She will stay in touch. She likes Annette too.

***

Every Wednesday night, she meets for a private session with her assigned counselor, a friendly middle-age woman with pictures of her children proudly displayed throughout the office, intermingled with framed proof of her impressive academic resume. She is on her best behavior, always early for the appointments, and engages with good cheer. The counselor takes a liking to her, very quickly, and deems her one of the best clients in twenty years.

To further ensure successful treatment, her counselor suggests she engage in recreational activities. Doing so is meant to redirect anger and other unpleasant emotions, and provide an outlet in place of furious outbursts. Anastazia agrees.

“I do believe these sessions are helping you, my dear girl.” The Doctor says one Friday night, during their evening session; he removes his protective earmuffs and strolls up to the poster board that’s now riddled with bullet holes. He quietly counts, then returns to her side as she’s pulling the safety on her gun. “You’ve stopped aiming for the poor fellow’s nether regions.”

***

Group sessions are a far cry from Stazia’s personal counseling. The participants, loosely-termed, are a mixture of women, all of whom have been sentenced here by the court and none of which demonstrate any desire to be there or take it seriously. The group meets twice a week, held in the basement of a small church. Halfway through the program, events unknown occur and an intern takes the place of the well-seasoned, no-nonsense woman who previously ran the group like a drill sergeant runs basic training. 

Miss Rosaline, a bubbly redhead with big green eyes and an eagerness to please, fits into this group of hardened and generally pissed-off women very well. Very…very well.

During session five, the first one Rosaline gets to run on her own without supervisory presence, the women are divided into small groups and asked to brainstorm “pro-social outlets through which their otherwise-dysfunctional anger issues can be channeled”. Stazia finds herself in a group with three others. One woman proposes pro-wrestling; another advocates for art, and after seeing this woman’s random sketches of decapitated heads, missing body parts, and lots of poorly-illustrated gore, Stazia is not surprised but a little curious if maybe this woman requires therapy beyond anger management; and the third shares a secret love of crafts, like wood-working, which Stazia considers appropriate for a woman who went after her husband with a hammer.

“Miss Anastazia,” Rosaline asks with a cheery smile, “what do you like to do?”

Stazia returns the smile, as sweet as can be, presses her index and middle finger together, holds her thumb erect, aims at the wall as she would a target, and pulls an invisible trigger. After group, she’s approached by a woman from another group, who gives her a coy smile and slips a piece of paper in Stazia’s hand before trotting off. The paper happens to contain the woman’s phone number.

“Well,” the Doctor asks the following night, sipping a cup of tea while Anastazia cleans her gun, “was she at least good-looking?”

***

She completes her counseling sessions on time and receives a long-winded speech about how far she’s come. The therapist gives her a certificate of completion for the court, and a separate little plaque to document her achievement. She smiles and offers thanks, promising to always remember the lessons learned here and apply them to the rest of her life.

“What am I supposed to do with _that_?” Annette asks, raising both eyebrows into her hairline as she looks over the presented gift.

Anastazia shrugs and hands it over with a smirk. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

During her next visit to the jail, Annette proudly shows the little crack and chip in the plaque’s corner, which she took to her new cellmate’s head for trying to swipe her prized magazine collection. Anastazia asks why it wasn’t confiscated by the guards for being used as a weapon.

“Not my fault the klutz tripped and fell into it.” She grins.

***

The guilty verdict isn’t particularly surprising; it’s not as though, with all the testimony from his former employer, there was no doubt as to his guilt. His lawyer hangs his head, looking defeated, but it’s an act and Kyle wants none of it. He doesn’t need the pity show, and he tells the little man as much.

Araz visits him in the jail, two weeks after the verdict, three weeks before the judge’s sentence is to be handed down. The man’s appearance is insulting enough, a three-piece suit, perfectly groomed and carrying himself with great satisfaction. By comparison, in a jumpsuit and several pounds lighter, thanks to the food served here, Kyle knows he is a far cry from appearing a gentleman or civilized figure. He finds it remarkably easy to not care. There is a certain freedom in being a caged animal; he can be feral, wild, and unpredictable.

“I want you to know this was never personal.” Araz tells him, seated with perfect posture across the metal table. “I’m sorry you had to get mixed up in this.”

_No, you’re not._

“Please know I did value you as an employee.” He continues, as if he never spent five hours relaying every dark detail and hanging out all the dirty laundry to be seen by the viewing audience. “I am sorry it had to be this way.”

Kyle nods, very slowly, and sighs. “I’m glad you came here.” He finally says. “There’s something I want you to know, too.”

Araz looks interested, even leaning forward a little. There’s a moment where Kyle lets his fingers twitch, fingers wanting to make their mark in the man’s throat while strangling the life from him. And yes, that is how he should die: slowly, gasping for his last breath, choking while his lungs shrivel and wither without their oxygen.

He doesn’t, not here; not in a place where the guards will be on him before any real damage could be done. But he crafts the vision in his mind and lets it settle for a short minute. Then, he stands, smiles, and shrugs one shoulder: the look of one who has just reached a profound conclusion, something so very matter-of-fact, an irrefutable truth that simply must be shared. And so, he does.

“I’m going to kill you, Araz.” He murmurs, still smiling. “I don’t know how. I don’t know when. But I will. I promise you, I will.”

***

Twenty-one days later, Judge Howard hands down the final judgment: death in the gas chamber. Across the room, from the peripheral, he can see Araz breathe out, and then smirk. To the right, his attorney sighs, once again, and rests his head atop folded hands. Behind him, in the brief moment he dares look over his shoulder and find her in the gallery, Stazia stares straight ahead, meeting his gaze when he offers it, and he watches an agonized expression ripple over her expression.

He looks back at Judge Howard. She looks at him, shaking her head with a tight sigh. “May God have mercy on your soul, Mr. Nimbus.”

_God can keep His mercy._

***

She doesn’t give her father the chance to officially kick her out. Everything she holds dear is reduced to one bag, packed in half an hour. She placed the corvette in the doctor’s protective care, two weeks ago, because there are memories attached to the vehicle and she’ll never let her father or cousin get their hands on it. She puts the bag on her bike, zips her leather jacket, and leaves. She’s gone before anyone else ever comes home.

The bank accounts in her name are closed out and emptied, after some negotiating with the bank teller and promising the distinct redness around her eyes is not from intoxication or use of illegal drugs. They give her cash, mostly large bills with some smaller ones, for daily use, and she pockets it in her bag. She isn’t sure that she’ll ever set foot in a bank again. Maybe there’s something to be said for stocking cash beneath a mattress. 

Except she doesn’t have a mattress.

“ _Hit up Mama’s place._ ” Annette tells her over the payphone. “ _She’s got a soft spot for runaways. And you might even be able to make a buck or two. Maybe more, with that figure of yours._ ”

That little comment is enough to prepare her for what’s to come, and once she’s inside the rather lavish parlor of Paradise and asks to speak with “Mama” herself, it’s just a waiting game. Five minutes of waiting, if that, and then an incredibly-endowed figure, dressed in an elaborate purple dress with frills and fringe along every hem, descends the stairs and greets her with a warm handshake and a honeyed accent that belongs in the Old South.

“Permit me to make myself clear, Mama.” She says, too tired to waste time and beat around the bush. “I’m aware of what kind of establishment this is. I’m happy to work for a place to sleep, but I’ll work with my clothes on.”

Mama tilts her head for a thoughtful pause. “You’d make a pretty penny with what the good Lord gave you, darling.”

“No doubt.” She nods. “I’m still not stripping. But I can promise you this: let me on your stage, to _sing_ , and you’ll make more than a pretty penny.”

***

The next evening, she is fully clothed and steps off the stage to a standing ovation and roaring cries for an encore. Mama is waiting for her, upstairs in the manager’s office, wearing a fetching shade of pink and a broad smile. She says the club hasn’t had such a performance in all its years of operation, and estimates the nightly income has officially doubled, if not tripled.

“You’ve got yourself a job, darling.” Mama declares. “What name do I give our newest star?”

“Stazia.” She answers, without pause and with barely a blink. “Stazia Nimbus.”


End file.
